The Barracks Ghost
by Umeko
Summary: The musketeer barracks is haunted and D'Artagnan moves into the haunted room.


Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas and are now in public domain.

It is a Victorian tradition to tell ghost stories around the fireplace on Christmas Eve. What if the Musketeers' quarters are haunted by the ghost of one of their comrades?

**The Barracks Ghost**

During the early reign of Louis XIII, a young man enlisted with the Musketeers. He was an unremarkable man and an average soldier. He was the youngest son of a minor nobleman and hailed from an almost insignificant family. There was no scandal to his name save for his untimely demise in less than glorious circumstances. To be fair, it was never the fault of his steed, a stallion much too spirited for a young and inexperienced horseman. Neither was it the fault of the smiling serving girl who gave him a parting tankard of strong festive ale at the threshold before he left the tavern. Wits addled and hot-blooded, he had ridden the horse harder than was wise through the darkened streets, coated with a layer of ice from the week's cold winter weather.

No, the resultant collision with the sign of the Merry Men Cookhouse did not snap his neck. It did however result in one very sore and unhappy musketeer greeting Christmas Day in his bed. There was a ball at the palace on New Year's Eve and the King's best were to stand in attendance. Of course, the luckless recruit had been given leave due to his broken leg. He seemed to be on the mend so his fellows saw no reason to sit up with him. They did leave a jug of wine, some spiced biscuits and a chamber pot by his bedside to spare him the need to hobble out to the latrines.

No one could say how exactly our poor recruit came to be found at dawn on New Year's Day, with his head stuck in the upturned chamber pot with a lump of biscuit stuck in his throat. There were stains of spilled wine on the floor so they supposed he might have slipped. After the coffin was buried and the last of the sniggers died down, life moved on for all at the Musketeers' barracks, except our unfortunate protagonist - Pierre de St Martins.

Pierre could not understand how he came to be stuck on the earthly plane. He never did any real evil, but neither was he a doer of good deeds. In short, he was a non-entity even among the flamboyant musketeers. He was forgettable as they came and soon everyone else had forgotten about the luckless recruit, what's-his-name. Being a ghost was boring. Somehow he was confined to the room he had occupied in his sickbed. There was hardly anything he could do about it or make his presence known. The room stood empty since his demise. There was precious little company. He could watch the musketeers at their practice from the window but that was it. Purgatory was no fiery circle as painted by the Italian Dante but a dingy room.

* * *

That was before the boy moved in.

He knew that change coming when the cleaning woman stormed into his prison like a Fury and swept out the cobwebs. The window was thrown open and the sheets changed. A rug was thrown over the wine stains on the floor. Next came the baggage, dumped unceremoniously on the rug. The fire was lit to warm the room in light of the winter season. The newcomer was young enough to be beardless but he wore the tunic of a musketeer.

D'Artagnan took in the dingy room and the Spartan furnishings. He had Monsieur de Treville to thank for his new lodgings. It was nowhere as warm as Athos' place, where he had put up after the house where he was lodged burned down in a fire almost two months back. It was meant to be a temporary arrangement, he told himself. Athos' welcome was bound to wear thin. How had the quarrel started? D'Artagnan was not sure now. Perhaps they both had too much to drink.

Porthos had won at cards and brought over some bottles of wine and a feast of festive goodies. They had drunk heavily. Athos made some remark he took offence at. Or perhaps it was the other way about. The next morning, a furious D'Artagnan had packed his bags and Athos did not stop him. He could have moved in with Porthos and Aramis but their rooms were way too small to admit him and Planchet. Planchet had been given leave to visit his sick sister so D'Artagnan was alone for now. D'Artagnan sneezed once, then twice. The room was awfully chilly. He did not feel too well and thought he might turn in early for the night. Perhaps he should not have indulged so heavily the night before.

The ghost shrugged and perched on the chair as the young man retired for the night. The night passed without incident but dawn found the young man stricken with a raging fever. Pierre idly wondered if someone would come to rouse his roommate and finding him ill, fetch a doctor. The fire had died out by now and the room was freezing. There was nothing Pierre could do as a ghost. He waited and waited to no avail.

D'Artagnan's absence went unremarked on by his fellows. The new recruit was known to be in the constant company of the Inseparables. The other musketeers in the barracks did not raise an eyebrow at his absence at the breakfast table, even if it was noted amidst the chaos of thirty-odd men and boys snatching a bite before their day's duties. Athos, Aramis and Porthos believed D'Artagnan was in good hands in the barracks and they did not seek him out due to their morning patrol. Monsieur de Treville, who might have noted D'Artagnan's failure to appear for breakfast, had been called away on urgent business by the king and was not expected back until supper.

* * *

Noon came with D'Artagnan finally trying to get out of bed but he did not get too far before his weakened body collapsed in a pile of tangled bedclothes. Now Pierre wondered if he would end up sharing his afterlife existence with the ghost of the apparently ailing young man. Pierre peered out of the window and waved his arms but as usual no one in the yard below noticed him.

"Where's D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked when he and Porthos ran into Athos in the practice yard.

"Thought he might be with you," Athos grunted as he shook snow off his cape.

"I hear Monsieur de Treville put him up in the barracks," Porthos added. "We have a party tonight at Madame Fanny's and thought he might like to see in the New Year with us."

"Really? I was not aware they had any more empty beds here," Athos remarked.

"Well, they might have opened up the room where that poor recruit died a few years back, drowned in a piss-pot…" Porthos stroked his goatee and said aloud.

The trio trooped up until they stood outside D'Artagnan's door. Athos rapped on the heavy door.

"D'Artagnan, you in there?" Receiving no reply, he tried again.

Through the haze of his fever, the patient stirred at the sound. D'Artagnan's eyelids fluttered but he could not make his way across to unlock the door. He was simply too weak. The ghost pondered the situation. It might be nice to have someone else to talk to but…

"He's out. Let's go…"

Without really thinking, Pierre grabbed the heavy pewter ewer off the table and threw it onto the floor with a tremendous clanging. That got their attention.

"D'Artagnan! You in there? Answer me!" The thuds on the door grew more insistent. D'Artagnan was inside, possibly hurt and his friends were getting worried. Porthos threw his shoulder hard against the door but the sturdy wood refused to give.

D'Artagnan moaned weakly at the commotion. Pierre stared at his translucent hands and the upturned ewer on the floor. He had never managed to move anything since he became a ghost. The young man's friends were unable to break the door down. One of them yelled at a passing servant for the key. Perhaps Pierre should help them again.

The key had been left in the keyhole. The ghost closed his fingers around the metal gingerly. It felt no different from when he was still flesh and blood. He turned the key and unlocked the door...

"What the…" Athos watched in amazement as the door which had so stubbornly withstood their efforts to break it down swung open. "D'Artagnan!" the trio caught sight of their stricken friend lying on the floor, still tangled in his bedclothes.

A doctor was sent for and a servant to light a fire to warm the room. Pierre watched the going-ons with a detached interest. The boy would live. He was in good hands. His friends were cancelling their plans for revelry to sit with him. The ghost drifted over to the open door. He felt warm and lighter than he had ever… _Oh, what's that beautiful light?_ With one final salute to the four musketeers now within his former sickroom, Pierre de St Martins moved on into eternity.

* * *

It was the day after New Year that the boy's fever broke and he came out of his delirium. The room was warm and cosy and perhaps a little overcrowded with four men in it. Aramis sat at his bedside. Porthos was propped on two chairs, snoring. Athos was leaning against the wall beside the fire. Aramis immediately called for a servant to send up a bowl of beef broth.

"Athos? Porthos? Aramis? No, stop. I can feed myself…" D'Artagnan scowled as Aramis popped a spoonful of broth into his mouth. He tolerated another few spoons before waving it away.

"You had us all worried, boy," Athos said as he came over. "How lucky you managed to open the door and let us in before we send Aramis climbing through the window."

"I didn't… I tried but I could not get up… I could not even call out…" D'Artagnan said. "There was another musketeer in the room. Never seen him before. He knocked over the ewer and opened the door… like to thank him…" D'Artagnan frowned. It was so unreal. The oddly pale, almost insubstantial figure with the Musketeers' tunic… _or was it just a figment of his fever-racked mind? _

"Think it was just a dream, D'Artagnan…" Aramis patted him on the arm when he noticed the frown. He did not want to unsettle the patient by relating the sorry fate of the room's former occupant. At the same time, he breathed a prayer of thanks for D'Artagnan's recovery and any ghostly aid rendered. He made a note to light a candle for the soul of the departed musketeer who had met a sorry end in this room.

"D'Artagnan, as soon as you are fit, you're moving back with me. This room is miserably drafty," Athos declared.

"Thank you, Athos…" D'Artagnan pulled the covers to his chin and settled in for a restful sleep.

**Author's Notes: **

I like writing ghost stories and army barracks are fertile grounds for hauntings. Hope you enjoyed this little festive offering.


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